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Wednesday, July 25, 2012

You Otter Be in Picture (Books!) Writing Contest!

I am so utterly thrilled beyond measure to relay the great news that the estimable Brooks Sherman has secured a deal for Sam Garton, author and illustrator of the Otter picture books, that I just didn't know what to do with myself other than have a writing contest!

Brooks found Sam on Twitter of all places, and when we all saw the website, and the story, and the art, it was love at first sight.

Then Brooks signed Sam and Otter as clients and submitted the book to editors and it was MORE love at first sight --the book sold at auction in what should be called a sweeeeeeeeeeeet deal.

And the only downside? Now we have to wait for the book to be published. Rats! (wait...rats??)

To assuage our waiting pains, let's have a writing contest!

Usual rules:

1. Write a story using 100 or fewer words.

2. Post the story in the comments column of this blog post.

3. You can take a mulligan, a do-over, by deleting your entry and entering again. Only ONE and it's the latest date stamp entry will be eligible.

4. Use the following words in your story:

Otter
Toast
Fan
Bouncing
Trap

5. Contest will OPEN on Friday 7/27 at 6pm and close Saturday 7/28 at 6pm. All times are Eastern Shark Time.

Sofia wrapped her arms around herself and began bouncing from foot to foot. It was too cold to be pottering around on the allotments. She’d spent too many evenings trapped here with her husband, when she should be toasty and warm at home. She rubbed her arms, glancing around the rest of the deserted patches. Everyone else had gone home hours ago. Not Stefan. His obsession kept him here from dawn until dusk every single day. He was in love with his plot. Now, face down hugging his carrots with a bullet in his head, the vegetables could have him.

Otter McMillan was a fan of the races. Those shining manes blowing in the wind sure brought a spring to his step. He had placed a bet on Sunshine and told the guys at the bar it would be a piece of cake. He was right. Otter was bouncing on his toes when the mare crossed the finish line in first. He was ready to toast the win when he realized half the bar had joined in on the pot. The winnings didn’t even pay for the bubbly. Next time he would keep his trap closed!

It was their Christmas tradition, and he continued to observe it: watch "Emmett Otter's Jug Band Christmas" and eat s'mores made on toast instead of graham crackers because that first year that's what they had. The second year, he fell into her trap, paid more attention to her than to the toast. It caught fire, and when he tried to fan the flames away the wallpaper behind the toaster burned.

Now, perfect mahogany bread was bouncing out of the toaster, as it had all these years since. He'd gladly trade a burning kitchen for another Christmas alone.

The trap was successful. Which wasn't good for me. I gritted my teeth. My sister, of course, went bouncing down the stairs, gleeful at my distress.

"You're toast!" I yelled.

Instead of chasing her, I tiptoed down the hallway to her room. As I entered, the color purple assaulted my eyes, but at last I spotted my quarry. I clawed through the pile of toys, tossing aside a Barbie and a #1 Fan foam finger. My stubby fingers finally closed around fake fur and whiskers.

I yanked her favorite stuffed otter from the heap and pulled out my scissors.

"To the winner, a toast!" (Though he‘Sno better than he otter be,Bouncing aft and fore ‘tilWe can take no more! Still,We should) "Stand and clap!"(Don’t let him speak, we’ll all be trap'd!)(I personally can’t stand the manAnd) "I’m his biggest fan!"

If my otter made me toast,I’d say, You Otter spread that butter.If my otter sat on a hot day in front of a fan,I’d say,You Otter drink water.If my otter was bouncing on a trampoline,I’d say,You Otter be a spotter.If my otter played Mouse Trap,I’d say, You Otter not bother.For you ate my toast,And sat lounging in front of my fan,And bounced on my trampoline.You Otter made a mess.Now I must be mean.You Otter! It is time to clean!

The man camped in front of the television, a beer trapped in one hand and remote in the other. He was bouncing a small child on his knee.

The screen flashed to a news report. A warning appeared: pictures were graphic. The man peered closer. Cameras fanned out over a toasted sack of bones, still smoldering. The headline read: Teenagers Burned Otters, Arrested for Animal Abuse.

“What some people won’t do nowadays,” the man said. The child began to cry, and the man shouted for his wife. When she didn’t come, he marched into the kitchen and swung at her.

At the book signing, Karen spotted an odd-looking fan. Bouncing from a trap of pink elastic, the woman’s blue hair attracted stares from nearly everyone. She loudly munched a piece of toast, and when her turn came, crumbs dribbled onto the author’s table.

“Your name?” asked Karen.

“Otter,” said the woman.

“Okay…Otter,”

“Otter quit your day job, ‘cuz you suck,” said the woman, laughing with tears on her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” said the red-cheeked manager, suddenly appearing. He escorted the still-laughing woman from the store. When he returned, he explained: “She comes in every week to harass our guest authors.”

“He mights not know his numbers or his letters, but he out swim all y'alls.” There goes Otter Ray's mama going on again was everybody's look in the principal's office, imagining her hips bouncing every which way down the hall and out the door. Otter Ray's mama had expected to see her son's picture in the paper. Someone trapping crawfish alerted the police when they found a piece of toast and Mavis's African fan on the river's edge. Officer Clint wasn't wearing his tie at the river's edge, but Mavis Red sure was when Otter Ray carried her out.

Mia was ten and lives on a farm. Every little creature she sees, she names.One hot day Mia was bouncing pebbles at her pond.While there, Mia found an otter stuck in a trap.She took him home, trap and all.Mia kept him safe in her favorite place, a tree house.She fed the otter her morning toast and used her fan to keep him cool.When the little otter felt better it was time to set him free.She said goodbye and left him nameless just for you.Name the otter and make him YOURS.

“It’s called a Bouncing Otter.” Slurps beer. “You lay back on a tube and trap the handle in your knees.”

“Hmm. Mine’s a Pink Flamingo. You use one ski and put your free foot on your knee.”

“Sounds like an umbrella drink. Those are way too easy.”

“What you got, hot shot?”

“I’ve got Honey on Toast.” Stands up. “Climb the tree.” Grabs the air above his head. “Reach in the bees’ nest.” Scoops. “180 to get away.” Spins backwards. “Spread and enjoy.” Sweeps hand back and forth, bites air, and grins.

Like a bloodied otter propelling over his flooded dam, breathless, scraped by wooden splinters, adrenalin spiking, I guide my battered canoe through muddied, water- bound New Orleans streets, bouncing and fragile, wary and worn, a child’s torn paper fan on turbulent and muddied black and oily waters, navigating around rotting garbage, seeking my neighbor who needs rescue from his sunken sanctuary, this morning just a house, this afternoon a lethal trap, my friend, always a dreamer and perhaps last night dreaming about his fiancee, surprised by rising waters at seven o’clock during the simple act of making buttered toast.

His musk is stale. She watches him scratch his belly with both hands like an otter. She had never been a fan, but she had witnessed the bouncing Barbie’s that straddled the stage at his concerts. She plays the part. It gets her in the room.“A toast” she whispers in his ear “to Marigolds keep.”He spills his drink on the leopard print sheets.His vitality dampens like a trapped beast.She gets up. “What do you want from me” he says.“I’ll have to get back to you on that, dad” she says and walks out the door.

“Mommy, where is Otter?”“Stuck in the trap.”“Let him out, let him out.”“Can't do that.”“Why?”“Because he ate the toast and chased the cat; bouncing on the bed I grabbed him by his hat.”“He was hungry.”“He chased kitty ‘cause kitty doesn’t like him.”“He was bouncing ‘cause bouncing’s fun.”“No… he was making trouble and I’m not a fan of trouble.”“Let him out, let him out.”“Okay.”“Mommy, where is Otter?”“He’s dead.”“Why?”“He ate the cat and choked on a bone when he bounced on the bed and lost his hat.”

The crowd erupted as Bouncing Toast’s band members left the stage. They were just the opening act for Otter Trap, but audience reactions like this are normally reserved for the featured act.

One fan, though, stood out conspicuously unmoving; dazed and hypnotized.

“Where’s your lighter, bro?” screamed a bearded ruffian to his left.

But the query went unanswered. That catatonic stare didn’t break as his legs collapsed, the ringing in his ears intensified and the full effects of the drug cocktail he’d injected earlier numbed his mind. He’d finally accomplished his goal, though, of listening to the entire set stoned.

It was a warm dreamy summer night. The whirly fan whooshed on the desk. Under the moonbeam of the lamp, Otter crayoned the final strokes on his drawing of a wild, dragon-like, green river. Just then he saw Moth air bouncing, as if flying over river rapids, toward the fanged fan blades. Moth was mesmerized - a light trap. He would be toast! Otter flipped and caught Moth smooth as a summer breeze. “Thank you, I wanted to see your drawing.” Plain Moth loved colors. “It is a fierce dragon river, but not as fierce as that fan.” Otter smiled.

Sighing, Elin plunked down, bouncing the saltshaker and salt all over the kitchen table. She sullenly drew trails with her finger. Nobody was home, no one to hear her whole, sad story of how badly she did on the pop quiz; they ought to call those ‘trap tests’. And not one of her friends or her family apparently remembered her stupid birthday. Sigh.

Then she saw the small birthday card (under the salt), the cheesy saying read; “There’s No Otter Dotter like You!”Your entire fan club awaits in the backyard to toast your birthday! Love, Mom

One summer in my early teens, I ate nothing but Otter Pops and buttered toast. It was neither a protest nor an eating disorder; they were the only things we had. The AC in our cramped apartment never worked, so my best friend was a large window fan which kept me cool as well as sometimes trapping flies, and was also good for muffling the sounds of the bouncing mattress in the next room. My sister worked very hard to earn money for the rent, but it just wasn't the same as having parents.

Otter studies two doors: one marked "Fish;" the other, "Nuts and Berries." He picks "Fish" and walks into the trap. The blades of a giant fan hack him to pieces, severed limbs bouncing against the walls. Blood spatters the ceiling.

In the control room, Teddy smiles at the monitor. "He's toast. Oh wait, what the--"

The fake fur and blood vaporize, leaving behind the wires and cogs of the Otterbot.

"Hahaha! You're toast, buddy." In the outer control room, Otter selects "Dark" and pushes the lever that lowers Teddy into the slot of the giant toaster below.

He wanted a quiet ceremony. Just the two of them, the vows, the rings. And a toast for luck. He didn't need anything else to trap her into a life of bouncing babies and cooking dinner. Of course, he'd have to fan her vanity a bit first. She wanted A Wedding. Cakes. Dresses. Even swans. He said he'd meet her halfway. Gave her a kiss and some promises. Told her he'd always value her opinion. Once she became Mrs Charles Otter, she would no longer have one as far as he was concerned.

The best way to get through long summer days with everyone trapped at home was always the zoo. After the bickering, bitching and packing of snacks, it was always worth it.Her toddler loved the elephants, but her big kids were fans of the otters. The enclosure was fabulous -- a wall of glass, kids bouncing on their tiptoes, trying get a glimpse of silvery fur as it whizzed down the slide.As the sun toasted their skin and the baby snoozed, it was easy to forget they had to go home, and there would be no one there.

Toast is a versatile food and one of Otter's favorites.He could eat it with butter. He could eat it with jam. He could eat while dancing and waving a fan. He could eat it one handed while bouncing on the bed. He could eat it (with difficulty) standing on his head. He could eat playing adventurer, avoiding booby traps, Or eat it cuddled up in a warm, cozy lap.

Salt is heavy in the air tonight, clouding my senses for only a moment as I watch you slumber.Thought to lure me across the sands with a champagne toast and grilled shrimp? I know you thought to fan our passions into a lasting bonfire, but we could never have more than a dalliance. Hiding my skin doesn’t bind me to you. Silly mortal. Never thought you were baiting your own trap. Otters swirled the great seas, bouncing in and out of moonlit waves, long before Selkies.

Darkness filled the room, the onlynoise coming from the fan. He was toast, his boss had him bouncing around all day and he craved sleep. Breaking the silence she whispered, “Honey?” It felt like a trap, yet he had to, “Yes dear?”

Tentatively she started, “I saw a picture and thought of us. Two otters were holding hands as they slept. The caption said its protection so they don’t float apart”

Reaching over he gently took her hand, from then on that’s how they slept. Holding hands and protecting their connection. Over time, the otter symbolized their relationship.

The sun seared outside and the fan blew us cool as we prepared for a zoo trip. We entered; a sign read Oldest Living Otter Ahead. Swimming in his trap of confinement, lagging behind his mates, alone in a pool of many. The younger ones were bouncing up and down and slithering on the man- made embankment. The older one, eyes-wide, just stared through them, and the glass, at us. He struggled, passed over, ignored by his progeny, invisible: eyes wide open looking for connection in a pool of alienation. I blinked twice at the old mammal; he blinked back.

Otter was a duck. She lived in Louisiana, had green wings and wore purple sneakers. She loved Bon Jovi and croissants. Poor Otter felt she lived in a trap.

Otter wanted to visit Netherlands, but was terrified of flying. She longed to have butter-smothered toasts in a cafe in Amsterdam. She yearned for a hand-held fan painted with tulips. She wanted to take a dive in the infamous canals.

So if you ever see a duck bouncing down the streets of New Orleans, singing "Runaway", help a duck to make her dreams come true. Teach her how to fly.

It’s late; my whiskers have grown a seven o’clock shadow. I drum my paws on the desk. She should’ve been here by now. The dame. I fear the worst. The fan whirs slowly, casting hypnotic shadows on the wall. I hear a clicking down the hall. It takes a suave otter to pull off heels. She comes bouncing in, her excitement and her large breasts preceding her. “Lenny!” She says in her nasal squawk. “He fell for it! The trap!” I pulled her in close to me and raised my glass of whiskey. “A toast; to you, kid.”

The Toast was not having any of it. He paced furiously back and forth on the bridge of his spaceship. “The Otter Tribe has defied us for the last time!” The Toast screamed, bringing his buttery fist down onto a stack of encyclopedias. “We will go all-out full, scrambled eggs on their asses!” The Wine Bottle, his long suffering wife, pulled out a peanut butter-colored revolver. “I’m sorry it had to come to this, babe, but your Bouncing Raccoon Jobs Recovery Act was pathetic.” “But, you were my number one fan!” “No,” she growled. “Fifty-sixth.” Long live the Toast.

Otter Pete and Sammy Skunk play hide and seek every day. Pete always wins because his sensitive nose easily finds his friend. Sammy decides to use Pete's weakness against him. He climbs the Jones’ cabin porch rail, bouncing through the open kitchen window. He pops a slice of cinnamon swirl bread into the toaster and sets a trap for Pete by using a fan to blow the delicious odor outside. Pete follows his nose right to the toast, but as it turns out, Sammy is caught again because cinnamon swirl toast is also his favorite.

Little Jackie D Went bouncingUp a treeTo see what shecould seeOh gee,oh me,I think I seea sweet little Ottertrapped in the seaShe bounced back downwith a very largefrownsayingI don’t mean to boastBut he’ll surely be toastLess I paddle that boatBy that man with a fanAnd rescue that OtterBefore he can’t floatBut when they gotBack And after theflapThe Otter spoke smackSilly girl, said he Anyone can easily seeI was on my backJust taking a nap

Minka wondered how fast an OTTER could eat a man. They seemed too small to get the job done, too playful to take it seriously. She wasn't a FAN of animals, but it seemed too cruel to inflict her husband on them. He'd been impossible to stomach for the past two years, even before he became generous with his fists. A trip to the zoo - a TRAP he wouldn't see coming. A small smile tugged at her bruised lips. He was TOAST. BOUNCING lightly in her shoes, she moved on to the tiger cage.

Dear Baby Otter, don't look sad. Your almost ready to be more like Dad. To run in the sun, eat toast by the bay. Go out with your friends without hearing me say: "Be careful of this, be careful of that." "No more bouncing or wearing a hat." I may worry or try to give you a map. Others may lead you to a scary trap. I wish it wasn't time to let you go. But your old enough, so it must be so. I'll watch from afar as you turn into a man. Love Your Mom, Your Biggest Fan.

The fan was bouncing before him. He sighed, trying to remember how he'd fallen into this trap. He couldn't. He could see the door from where he was; getting to it was another matter. Just standing up from whatever seat they'd left him in would require tricky maneuvering. The furry thing lying across his feet – some sort of otter? – had obviously been placed there to trip him up. The door opened and a woman in white entered, carrying a tray with toast. She sighed. She hated treating former spies that had Alzheimer's so early in the morning.

One day six year old Jane decided, “I’m going to Sea World.” After bouncing on her bed and eating a yummy breakfast of French toast, she got out her overnight bag and began to pack.Jane was so tired from packing; she decided to take a nap. Jane began to Dream that Oscar the otter was in a trap and Jane, his biggest fan, must rescue him. Jane woke up and inside her bag was a picture of Jane and Oscar at Sea World. Was it a dream?

The light bulb moment came when I realized I was utterly alone. It was getting late, so we had fanned out to explore. Ron and Amanda had played the part of expert hikers, weaving in and out of the forest growth like they were one with the woods. And since Tessa’s 100% airheaded, she went floating and bouncing through the woods like some brainless wood sprite.

Something in my gut told me I was wandering deeper into the trap, but I wasn’t officially toast until I heard a low, growling voice.

Once upon a time, an otter named Oscar sat on a log, eating toast and jam.

As he ate, two farmers came along boasting of a trap they had set for him and his wife, no doubt eager for their luxurious coats. Bouncing off his seat, Oscar ran to find his beloved down by the river. She was there, cooling herself with a watercress fan.

New York’s a trap for shallow-pockets. And hangover-hunting on a gentrified island is thirsty work. But you can’t beat this place for cultural amenities.

I prefer air-conditioned bars wherein to drown my sorrows, but at pub-prices my sorrows still gambol like otters long after I’m broke. So instead I tipple al fresco, oozing fragrant electrolytes into the baking shade, cradling my hot bottle. I raise a toast to guerrilla choreography – to wit, a gaunt, sun-stroked lunatic performing a terminal fan-dance, waving a tatty scrap of cardboard, bouncing and twirling in spastic abandon – a manic manifesto as life leaks away.

The trap door to the crawl space under my front porch is open.Odd.I latch it shut on my way out.A waft of ancient fish heads greets my return. Climbing the front steps, the back of my leg feels a tap-tap-tap.I turn. An otter looks up at me, nods at the trap door, and thumps her tail.She's keeping something under my porch; a bouncing baby boy otter.Now I'm a fan. I leave the trap door open, drink a toast to my new guests, and cook up the crab legs she brings.

Down the path she went, her tail bouncing behind her. It was no coincidence the bounce had returned right after Beaver moved in upstream. Otter was not a fan of Beaver.

Maybe her love wasn’t real. Maybe it never had been. But Otter’s was. And so was his trap. Soon they’ll be caught in the rubble of Beaver’s dam, waiting for the flames to take them. In ten minutes, they’ll both be toast.

Toasty Von Trapp, the lovable otter best known for his role as the eighth member of the Von Trapp Family Singers, passed away early Saturday morning. Adopted by Captain and Maria Von Trapp to boost the group’s sagging popularity, Toasty quickly swam his way into the hearts of music and semi-aquatic animal lovers everywhere. His unique brand of slippery fun was an instant hit, eventually bouncing Gretl’s “Yawning Adieu” as the fan favorite. Bitter jealousy between the siblings ultimately proved too much for the sensitive otter. He left the group and lived out his days in a quiet marsh.

“Bye Mom! I'm going outside!” I glanced up in time to see my daughter bouncing toward the back door with the cord of a table fan trailing behind her. “Just where do you think you're going with that?” My mommy alarms were all going off.“ I'm trying to trap an otter, and I need it to blow the smell of the jelly toast out to the trees! Bye!”

Stifling a snicker, I watched as she let the screen door slap shut behind her. I don't know if otters like jelly toast, but I guess we'll find out!

It was hot. A hundred degrees of trapped heat beat down on the city scorching everything the sun touched. Even the pool couldn’t diminish the sweltering heat. Michael didn’t care bouncing around in the water like an otter at play. His skin toasted brown by hours beneath the waves. This was fun for him.

From the shade his mother fanned herself while reading.

“Whatcha reading?”

Drops of water felt cool on skin as her son dripped above her. “Sam Garton’s new book. I wanted to make sure you’d like it.”

Tapping a fur-covered toe, Jen eyed sugar-high kiddies bouncing past. Grateful for the gig, she hadn’t asked what cast members actually did. Now, trapped in a ratty otter costume that reeked of stale sweat and burnt toast, she cursed the hiring manager for Wally’s Water World. Minimum wage wasn’t worth her dignity.

Nearby, a disgruntled fan scuffled with security, distracting her from self-pity. People screamed, but Jen barely registered the gun before a shot cracked out. Something struck her, nearly knocking the giant head from her shoulders. Trembling, she yanked it off and stared at the still-smoking hole.

"Greg, I've always been your greatest fan. So to be your best man, raising a toast the day you marry Sally -- wow, just wow. It's just a shame I can't let you do it. You see, I know you cheated. With farmyard animals."The audience gasped, the country club trophy room frozen in disbelief. Even the stuffed animal heads seemed to recoil from the revelation -- the moose over the fireplace, the otter on the far wall. The father of the bride dropped his fork, peas bouncing over the table.Greg rose, face red. "So this whole wedding was a trap?"

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I'm a literary agent in NYC. I specialize in crime fiction and narrative non-fiction (history and biography.) I'll be glad to receive a query letter from you; guidelines to help you decide if I'm looking for what you write are below.
There are several posts labelled "query pitfalls" and "annoy me" that may help you avoid some common mistakes when querying.